Page 15 of Infernal Bindings

I hug my coffee mug to my chest, as if the liquid warmth can protect me from her, but I don’t need to worry, Daemon is fast to intercede.

“Mom, play nice,” he warns, voice measured and calm. “Annie is a guest here.”

“More like a nuisance,” she mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

Sighing, she peels off her sunglasses and sets them on the island, her green eyes glittering. “I’ll have a black coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar.” Daemon reaches for the coffee pot, ready to oblige her, but she cuts him off. “My special coffee is in the garage. Don’t worry, I won’t let your food burn, and I won’t hurt your little… friend.”

I narrow my eyes at Daemon. You’re not seriously going to leave me alone with her?

But he only shrugs.

Stepping away from the stove, he heads outside while his mother takes over the cooking. I flip Daemon off as he disappears, fighting the urge to shout the word traitor at him. Spatula in hand, his mother turns the omelet—my omelet—then sets it on a plate.

“You didn’t go through with your baptism,” she says. It’s not a question. Daemon must have told her. “You used my son to run away instead of being brave enough to say no yourself.”

Again, not a question. I squirm under her scrutiny, her disapproval. “You hate me,” I whisper.

“I hate how codependent my son is with you.” She pours more egg into the pan, and we both watch it sizzle. “Even when it’s going to ruin his life.”

My brows furrow. “What do you mean? Daemon has to come when I call. He—”

“No, he doesn’t. That’s not how a demon covenant works.” She slides the omelet to me. “Daemon has to come when you explicitly order him to. He’s under no obligation to help you without a direct command.”

That can’t be right.

I shake my head. That would mean for years Daemon has chosen to be there for me—to make me breakfasts, help me dress shop, save me from awkward family reunions and disastrous proms. That would mean he’s wanted to be there, even without the bond. I stare at my tattooed wrist, trying to reframe thirteen years of history. “Why would he do that?” I ask.

His mother scoffs. “Your guess is as good as mine. I could have killed him for it last night. You have no idea what it’s cost him.”

“What do you—”

Daemon enters the kitchen, coffee grounds in tow. It’s an exotic brand in strange lettering that doesn’t look entirely human. He sets the bag on the countertop and peers between us. “What did I miss? Are we all friends now?”

“No.” She flips Daemon’s omelet and plates it for him. “I’ve changed my mind about the coffee though. I’m going to grab some at work instead.”

Shoulders back, chin up, she walks by me like I’m the scum of the earth, swiping the sunglasses from the countertop before disappearing. It’s impossible not to stare at her as she leaves. The woman knows how to command a room, which is as impressive as it is unnerving.

“Feel free to disregard whatever my mom said to you,” Daemon tells me, pouring pancake ingredients into a fresh bowl. “She likes to stir up drama.”

“Will you get in trouble for helping me last night?” I ask.

There’s a long pause. “Probably.”

“Would you have gotten in trouble even if Martha hadn’t been murdered?”

“Probably.”

“Then why did you come?” I cut a piece of my omelet, but suddenly my appetite is gone. Pushing the food around, I wait for Daemon to answer.

He whisks the pancake batter, but doesn’t meet my gaze. “I always come when you call, Annie. You know that.”

“What will happen—”

“Demon punishments are for demons only. It’s one of those things I’m not supposed to share.” He adds fresh and plump blueberries into his mixture—my favorite kind of pancakes—and slowly folds them in. “Do you want whipped cream?”

I want you to answer me.

But I don’t push him. Instead, I nod and let Daemon finish making our breakfasts.